Town and Gown
by Gramarye
Summary: COMPLETED 4 JANUARY 2002 - A notable guest speaker gives a lecture that the students of Hogwarts will not soon forget. Crossover/fusion with Susan Cooper's The Dark Is Rising Sequence.
1. Part One - A Lecture

Not truly a crossover--more along the lines of "character borrowing".   
It's probably better if you've read both Susan Cooper's "The Dark Is   
Rising" series and the Harry Potter series to get a better grasp of   
the story. I originally planned this as a one-shot story, but due to  
sudden creative outpouring, I think it would work better divided into  
three parts.  
  
As for the time period...this tale would potentially take place   
sometime during the events in Goblet of Fire, early in the school   
year.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and   
various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K.  
Rowlings, Scholastic, and other international companies involved in its  
creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"   
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Town and Gown  
By: Gramarye  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------   
  
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the   
darknesses of other people.  
  
-- Carl Jung  
  
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"We need to sit closer to the front! How can we see anything if we're   
all the way back here?"  
  
"Hermione, we're only five rows back."  
  
"Just because *you* like goofing off in the back of the room, Ron   
Weasley, doesn't mean that the rest of us do!"  
  
"Stop it, you two," Harry sighed, pushing his glasses up from where   
they had slipped down his nose. "Ron, I'm sure we can move up another   
row. Hermione, you know I don't like being right on top of the person   
who's talking, so is four rows back all right with you?"  
  
Neville, who had been quietly walking behind Harry, piped up, "Would   
it be all right if I sat with you? Four rows back is fine with me.   
I don't really like being in the front row, either."  
  
"See?" Ron said, smirking.   
  
Hermione flounced past him in a huff. "Fine, fine," she said, letting  
the sarcasm drip off her words. "It's possibly the most IMPORTANT   
lecture of the year, but far be it from me to want to actually PAY   
ATTENTION."  
  
Professor McGonagall swept forward, scattering the students in her   
path. Her hands were fluttering about, shooing them down the aisle.  
"Come along, Miss Granger, Mr. Weasley, sit down so other students can  
get to their seats. We mustn't keep Professor Stanton waiting."  
  
The four friends settled into the centre of the large lecture hall.   
  
"What's this all about, anyway?" Neville asked Ron as they sat down.   
Harry had judiciously placed himself in between Ron and Hermione, with   
the hope of preventing another row from breaking out between the two.  
  
"Dunno. Guest speaker, from the look of it," Ron said with a shrug.  
  
"Have you heard anything about it, Hermione?" Harry asked.  
  
Hermione nodded. "I was talking to McGonagall the other day after   
class, and she mentioned that this Professor Stanton's talk is about   
Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle Studies. She wouldn't say   
much more than that, except to inform me that if anyone skipped the   
lecture, we'd fail both classes for the year."  
  
"Really?" Ron gave a low whistle, and Neville's eyes widened   
considerably.  
  
Harry scratched his head. "Well, whatever it's about, she's certainly  
uptight about it. I've never seen her so jumpy. Like a cat on the  
coals."  
  
"Snape doesn't seem to be acting any different," Ron said, jerking his   
head toward the Potions master, who was watching a group of Slytherins  
file into the lecture hall. There was a look of profound irritation on  
his face.  
  
"I don't see why we have to be with the Slytherins for this," Harry   
commented. "You'd think they'd know better by now. Why not put us  
with Ravenclaw, or even Hufflepuff?"  
  
"I'm sure they'll hear the lecture after us," Hermione said sagely.  
  
"How does that explain anything?" asked Ron.   
  
"Chocolate Frog?" Harry offered, quickly passing out the slightly  
squashy chocolates before Hermione decided to retort. His efforts   
were rewarded with the sound of contented munching, just as Professor  
McGonagall marched up to the raised dais at the front of the hall.  
  
She gave the assembled students a stern glare, her piercing gaze  
roaming around the hall in search of miscreants. "Now, I hope that   
all of you will give Professor Stanton your full and undivided  
attention. I also hope that I don't need to remind you how we at  
Hogwarts behave toward our distinguished guests. I expect nothing   
but appropriate conduct from each and every one of you."  
  
"Who does she think we are? A bunch of silly first-years?" Ron said   
in a stage-whisper.  
  
"Ssh!" hissed Hermione, craning her neck to see over the heads of the  
few students in front of her.  
  
There was movement up in the front of the hall, and a smattering of  
polite applause spread across the audience as a dark-robed figure   
approached the raised platform and took his place behind the podium at  
centre stage.  
  
Their lecturer was a tall man in his late thirties or early forties,  
with an unruly thatch of short brown hair. He wore a dark floor-length  
cloak, which was clasped at the throat with a flat gold bar. His round  
face was placid and entirely unremarkable. From somewhere within his  
cloak, he produced a pair of thin, horn-rimmed spectacles and settled  
them on his nose.   
  
Harry's first impression of him was that of a man behind a glass wall.  
He looked kind, true, but he had an air about him that made him seem  
entirely unapproachable. The closest comparison he could make was to   
think of...no, it wasn't like being watched by Snape, who made you feel  
clumsy and ignorant with every cold glance and cutting word. This was   
more analytical, more detached, as if the man had seen everything before  
and was silently classifying you, using some system that only he knew.  
  
The man peered at the audience over the top of his glasses. "As I'm  
sure your professors have told you, attendance at this lecture will   
be counted toward both your Defence Against the Dark Arts and Muggle  
Studies grades. You are not required to take notes. However," he  
continued, raising his voice to be heard over the rustling of books   
and parchment being put away, "however, I would recommend it. It is   
entirely up to your professors whether material from this lecture would  
find its way onto either course's final examination."  
  
With a collective groan, and much whispering and shuffling of papers,   
the students settled down to take notes.   
  
The man at the podium waited patiently until things had quieted before   
he cleared his throat.  
  
"I must confess that I have not had much experience at lecturing to   
this kind of group. When one deals primarily with Muggle students of   
anthropology at various institutes of higher learning, one tends to   
develop a teaching routine. Please feel free to let me know if the   
pace is too fast or--"  
  
A loud, obviously fake snore interrupted the speech, followed by a   
burst of giggles from the back of the hall.   
  
Tittering and whispering, the assembled students looked around for the   
source of the noise. Both McGonagall and Snape, certain that the   
other's House was responsible for the disturbance, put on their best   
disapproving glares and waited for the chance to deduct points.  
  
Hermione scowled irritably. "Honestly, can't people grow up?" she said  
out loud to no one in particular.  
  
The lecturer, far from being irritated, merely raised an eyebrow and   
kept a neutral expression. "I see. Never let it be said that my   
teaching style was superior." He rested his hands on the podium. "And  
thank you very much, Mr. Malfoy, for being so kind as to remind me."  
  
The snickers and giggles stopped as abruptly as if they had been turned  
off with a switch.   
  
"Fifty points from Slytherin!" they heard Professor McGonagall crow   
triumphantly in the stunned silence.   
  
Ron and Harry sneaked looks at Draco, whose normally pale skin had lost  
even more color, if possible. His mouth hung slightly open, but he   
quickly snapped it shut. Scowling, he slouched down in his seat, arms   
folded across his chest. The Slytherins surrounding him had edged   
nervously away, and were intently staring at the front of the room as   
if to disassociate themselves from the source of the distraction.  
  
"Wow..." breathed Neville.  
  
"So what?" Ron muttered, casting another glance at the sulking Draco.   
"Dumbledore or someone probably warned him about Draco and his lot.   
*I'd* warn him, too."  
  
"I assure you, Mr. Weasley, your Headmaster and I have had several long  
conversations about the student body at this school. He has nothing   
but glowing praise for all of his students, particularly those at this   
grade level."  
  
Now it was Ron's turn to change color. A brilliant flush crept up his   
face, and his ears burned a fiery scarlet. He looked as if he wanted   
nothing better than to sink into the ground and disappear. Harry   
squeezed his eyes shut, Neville chewed nervously on his lower lip, and   
Hermione buried her face in her hands.  
  
"Fifty points from Gryffindor, *and* a detention for Weasley,"   
countered Snape, sounding very pleased with himself.   
  
The lecturer cleared his throat again, and resettled his glasses on the  
bridge of his nose. "If I may continue...."  
  
Quills sprang into action as note-taking commenced with a fury.  
  
The lecturer nodded. "Thank you. First, a brief introduction. My   
name is Will Stanton, and I am currently a Professor of Social   
Anthropology at Cambridge University, a Muggle institution of higher   
learning. You may address me as Professor Stanton or Dr. Stanton,   
whichever you prefer.   
  
"Anthropology, for those of you who are unaware of the discipline, is   
much like your Muggle Studies classes. Students investigate various   
Muggle cultures, their origins, social customs, cultural development,   
and general beliefs. Quite straightforward, wouldn't you say?  
  
"I suppose you are wondering why this lecture combines a science as   
ordinary as Muggle Studies with the more specific Defence Against the   
Dark Arts. At first glance, they would have absolutely nothing in   
common. Some wizards believe that Muggle Studies and other related   
subjects are worthless, especially when compared to more 'practical'   
classes, such as Potions or Transfiguration."   
  
At this last sentence, Harry noticed McGonagall straighten her robes   
and smooth back her hair. Snape, leaning against the wall with an air   
of bored indifference, did not seem to have heard anything out of the   
ordinary.   
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione nod eagerly as her quill   
raced across the parchment. Her notes appeared to be an almost   
verbatim transcript of Professor Stanton's speech so far. He looked   
back at his own paper, on which he had scrawled:  
  
Prof. Stanton - Lect. Notes   
Prof. of Anthrop. (like Mugg. Stu.)  
Mugg. Stu./DADA combo.  
Why? vs. 'practical' classes?  
  
He sighed quietly, and chewed on the end of his quill.  
  
"I have three reasons for my choice of combination," Professor Stanton   
said, ticking the points off on his fingers. "First, the link between   
the wizard and Muggle worlds cannot be ignored, especially not in these  
times. Second, defending oneself against all forms of the Dark Arts   
can only be accomplished with a thorough grounding in cultures not   
directly part of the wizarding world--which includes Muggles. And   
finally...well, the third reason will soon speak for itself.  
  
"Events in the Muggle world tend to reflect occurences in the wizarding   
world. Perhaps not on the same level, but the connection is certainly   
present. If you were to compare the events in one of your History of   
Magic textbooks with a standard history text from a Muggle school, you   
would notice some interesting similarities. This does not merely   
include the instances of witchcraft persecution--in fact, very few of   
those charged and condemned had little to do with any magic, whether it  
was for good or evil."  
  
Pausing for a moment, Professor Stanton leaned forward with a smile   
that could only be described as conspiratorial. "Keep that in mind the   
next time you are asked to write an essay on the impact that the   
"Burning Times" had on the wizarding world as a whole."  
  
Neville, who until that point in the lecture had looked more lost than   
usual, nearly tore his parchment in half trying to scribble down all   
the relevant information.  
  
As suddenly as the moment had come, it was gone. The friendly   
schoolmate vanished, and the reserved professor reappeared.  
  
"Now for my second point. A proper defence against all forms of the   
Dark Arts can only be accomplished with a thorough grounding in   
cultures not directly part of the wizarding world. I'm sure in   
previous classes you've studied various harmful magical creatures,   
from Goblins to Vampires and everything in between. You've learned   
their habits, their behavioral patterns, their strengths and   
weaknesses. And by studying all of these, you hope to have a strong   
defence against these potentially deadly creatures--should you ever be  
unfortunate enough to come across them one day.  
  
"Why bring Muggles into this? Well, Muggles can affect you in ways you   
could never even begin to imagine. They are easily swayed, both   
through magical and mundane means, to dark purposes. And," he added,   
his face hardening into a cold grimace, "the wounds they leave cannot   
be cured with a flick of a wand."  
  
A stifled hiss made Ron look up from his parchment. He opened his   
mouth to ask Hermione just what he had done this time, but the angry   
words died in his throat.   
  
Harry was gripping the arm rests of the chair so tightly that his   
knuckles had turned white. His eyes glittered with a strange glazed   
light, and his head was tilted slightly to one side, almost as if he   
was listening to something that no one else could hear. A broken   
quill lay forgotten in his lap, along with his note-covered parchment.  
  
"Psst! Harry! Hey, are you all right?" he murmured, fear making the   
hairs on the back of his neck prickle.   
  
Hermione, who had also noticed Harry's reaction, stared at her friend   
with mingled terror and concern. Panicking, Ron nudged Neville with   
his foot, trying to get his attention. But before the other boy could  
react, Harry released the breath he had been holding. Slowly, his grip  
on the arms of the chair relaxed, and he clenched and unclenched his   
hands a few times. He blinked rapidly, several times, and the dazed   
look slowly faded from his face.  
  
"Harry? Harry?!" whispered Hermione fearfully, tugging on the edge of   
his robes.  
  
"Listen to the lecture," Harry said quietly, not taking his eyes off   
of the man standing at the podium.  
  
"But--" Ron began.  
  
"Listen to the lecture," Harry repeated in the same monotone. Ron,   
Hermione and Neville exchanged confused glances, then turned back to   
face the front of the hall.  
  
The coldness on Professor Stanton's face had softened into a wistful  
expression. "A long time ago, a good, just, and noble man told a   
close friend of mine something I will never forget. He said, 'Beware  
your own race...they are the only ones who will ever hurt you, in the   
end.'"  
  
"He was speaking of Muggles, of course. And though this friend of mine   
possessed a magic to rival that of the most powerful wizards of all   
time, all that was needed was a bullet from a Muggle rifle to destroy   
his innocence. It left a wound--not physical, but emotional--that   
never fully healed.  
  
"Using magic to heal certain injuries made by Muggles would be as   
pointless and futile as using Muggle methods to treat the effects of   
a hex or a curse. Yet both types of injuries can be caused by the Dark  
Arts and its practitioners, either directly or indirectly. A moment of  
weakness is often all that is needed."  
  
His eyes narrowed, and he fixed them all with a stern glare. "Now, I  
am not suggesting that all Muggles are inherently dangerous--that would  
be like saying that all wizards are dangerous. Resorting to prejudice   
and rumor is nothing more than an easy out. Nevertheless, you wouldn't  
like to find yourself in a situation where even your most potent spell   
would be useless.  
  
"This brings me to my third and final point."  
  
He stepped back from the podium and removed his glasses, tucking them   
into some hidden recess in his cloak.  
  
"As the more observant of you may have realized by now, I am not a   
wizard, not like yourselves. If you passed me on the street, you   
would most likely think that I was just another Muggle, going about   
his business. But appearances can always be deceiving...."  
  
With that, the figure at the podium seemed to ripple, then vanish.  
  
There was a stunned silence, and then everyone began talking at once.  
  
"Did he Disapparate?" Neville asked, wringing the hem of his robes with   
agitated hands.  
  
"Nonsense!" Hermione snapped automatically, but her eyes kept darting   
back to the now vacant podium. "That's not how it's done, anyway.   
And how could anyone do something like that inside this school?"  
  
"Oh, who cares?" Ron shouted. "Harry, what happened back there?   
What happened to you? Was it--"  
  
"No," Harry said shortly. "Not Vol...I mean, You-Know-Who," he quickly  
corrected himself, seeing Ron shudder. "Nothing like that."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"I can't tell you, Ron," Harry said, standing up and collecting his   
broken quill and discarded parchment. "But don't worry. If he wants   
to let you know, you'll know."  
  
"Harry--" Ron protested, but Harry shook his head.  
  
"There's nothing to discuss," he said with finality.   
  
Hermione's face darkened with anger. "I don't believe this! You had  
us all scared to death, and now you won't even--"  
  
"Silence!" boomed Snape, pulling out his wand.   
  
The students froze, and all conversations ceased.   
  
"You will leave here and continue with the rest of your classes. And   
you are all forbidden from discussing what you have heard and seen here   
today--your professors have been instructed to take points from the   
Houses of any students caught doing so." His dark eyes lingered on   
Harry for a long moment as he said the last sentence, almost in   
unspoken challenge.  
  
Not willing to find out how willing Snape was to carry out his threat,   
the Slytherins and Gryffindors filed out of the hall in uneasy silence.  
  
Yet as they exited the lecture hall, Harry could have sworn he heard  
Snape mutter to himself, "Showing off again, damn him."  
  
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Gramarye  
gramarye@mailandnews.com  
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/  
December 20th, 2001 


	2. Part Two - A Promise

The second part of a Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising series crossover.  
Consider this a birthday present--or rather, a gift in honour of--Will  
Stanton, who according to "The Dark Is Rising" was born on December   
21st. Happy birthday, Will!  
  
Oh, and just for clarification, anything within asterisks, *like this*,  
indictes telepathy or a mental conversation.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and   
various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K.  
Rowlings, Scholastic, and other international companies involved in its  
creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"   
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Town and Gown  
By: Gramarye  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------   
  
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the   
darknesses of other people.  
  
-- Carl Jung  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
With a disgusted grunt, Hermione slammed her Arithmancy textbook shut.  
  
Neville, sitting across the library table from her, started and almost  
fell out of his chair.  
  
"Sorry," she muttered automatically. Ever since the lecture that  
morning, she'd been having a horrible time concentrating on any of her  
normal schoolwork. In class, she didn't worry much, because the rest  
of her classmates were even more distracted than normal. The teachers  
didn't notice that she wasn't raising her hand quite so often--they  
were too busy trying to keep the class focused on the lesson.   
  
Compared to them, Hermione was her usual attentive, studious self.  
  
Here, in the peaceful library with no one but Neville around, she had   
hoped to get some serious reading done. Yet no matter how hard she   
tried, she couldn't stay focused. Her mind kept drifting back to the   
strange, frighteningly blank expression on Harry's face, and Professor  
Stanton's even stranger lecture.   
  
It made sense to her, the connection between Muggle Studies and Defence  
Against the Dark Arts, but she still found it disconcerting. Lumping   
almost everyone you knew outside of Hogwarts into one big group   
labeled "Muggle" was still difficult, even after four years as a witch.  
And to hear someone, who wasn't even a wizard--or at least said he   
wasn't--speak about Muggles in such candid terms was very unnerving.  
  
Funny, that. She could endure Malfoy's daily taunts of "Mudblood"   
without a second thought, but she couldn't stomach a critical analysis   
of the weaknesses in the non-wizarding world.  
  
It was nearly time for bed, anyway. No point in wasting more time in   
the library tonight.   
  
She gathered up her books, and Neville hastily followed suit.  
  
"Are you going back?" he asked.  
  
"I suppose," she said, pushing her hair back from her face. "It   
doesn't look like I'll be getting much more done tonight."  
  
He closed the open notebook that lay before him on the table. "Would  
you look over the notes for Potions with me before class tomorrow?  
Maybe I'll remember more if you help me with it."  
  
"All right," she agreed, not really hearing him. The two of them  
pushed in their chairs and headed for the door.  
  
Hermione stopped short just inside the door to the corridor, nearly   
causing Neville to run into her. Two people were talking in hushed   
tones right outside the library, but the slight echo in the stone   
corridors allowed her to hear their conversation clearly.  
  
Recognizing one of the voices, she immediately shoved Neville back into  
the library, barricading the door with her body.  
  
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, trying to keep her voice low so Madame Pince  
wouldn't hear her. "I think I left my favourite quill on one of the   
bookshelves in the back. Neville, would you go and find it for me?"  
  
Neville, ever ready to oblige the girl whose patient tutoring kept him   
on the near side of passing, nodded and hurried back to look for the   
missing quill.   
  
Hermione watched him dart away, then pushed the door open just enough   
to keep it from squeaking. The quill in question was tucked safely in   
her pocket, as usual, but she had two important reasons for sending   
Neville off on a fool's errand.  
  
"If it isn't the living legend--Will Stanton himself."   
  
Snape's voice was unmistakable--Reason Number One. The frigid   
formality in it was also unmistakable--Reason Number Two.   
  
She peered through the crack in the door. Despite the dim light and   
her awkward position, she could see both of the teachers as they stood   
in the corridor.  
  
"Good evening, Professor Snape." Professor Stanton nodded courteously.  
  
Snape did not return the greeting. "Is there a reason why you are  
still here?"  
  
"It's been quite a while since I spent this much time in the world of   
magic," came the calm reply. "I've missed it very much. And pleasant   
company is always appreciated--I also miss the companionship of   
like-minded individuals."   
  
"'Like-minded individuals'?" Snape repeated mockingly. Though her poor  
vantage point didn't allow her to see his face clearly, Hermione could   
almost hear his eyebrows raise. "You must be a bigger ass than I ever   
thought, imagining you'll find 'like-minded individuals' here. This is  
a school for wizardry, in case you've forgotten during your little   
sojourn among the Muggles."  
  
"I doubt I could forget something like that so easily."  
  
Hermione shivered. Listening to the two dark-robed professors talk   
was like watching two towering pillars of ice, both equally frozen and   
remote. Snape's voice, as sour as curdled milk, seemed to battle with   
Professor Stanton's even, disinterested responses. She shivered again,  
and pulled her robes closer to her body.  
  
Then, without warning, everything was silent. Snape's lips still   
moved, but she couldn't hear anything--it was like watching television   
with the sound muted. Even the noise of other people walking down   
distant corridors had disappeared.   
  
For a sick moment, she was certain she had gone deaf.  
  
*I'm terribly sorry you have to witness this, Miss Granger,* said a   
quiet voice, cutting through the silence--and speaking inside her mind.  
  
Hermione's head snapped up to stare at Professor Stanton. It had to be  
his voice, but she hadn't seen his lips move. Even now, he was still   
apparently listening to Snape, who from his tightly-controlled gestures   
and burning glare was well into a lengthy diatribe.  
  
*What's going on? Who are you?* she asked, frightened at the intrusion   
into her head.  
  
*A friend, I hope," he answered, sounding apologetic. "I spoke with   
Mr. Potter earlier today, during the lecture, and he mentioned your   
name as a potential contact. I had wished to speak with you alone, but  
unfortunately, it seems that these will be the only circumstances under  
which we can meet.*  
  
*That's all right,* she replied with what she hoped was nonchalance,   
as if strange professors speaking directly into her mind and the minds   
of her close friends was an everyday occurrence. *I know what it's   
like to have problems dealing with Snape.*  
  
*Professor Snape,* he corrected gently, making Hermione blush. *Your   
Potions Master and I tend to have...differing opinions on certain   
subjects. But what I said was true. I do enjoy being in the company   
of like-minded individuals--those who valiantly serve the cause of the   
Light, often at great cost to themselves. And you, Miss Granger, have   
proved yourself on more than one occasion to be equal to the task.*  
  
This time, Hermione's blush was due to embarrassed and bewildered   
pride. *Thank you very much, sir.*  
  
*Not at all.* Professor Stanton sighed. *Before you ask me the reason  
for this meeting, I should tell you that I am not here to reiterate   
everything you've heard before. You know the dangers you face well   
enough. I am here to remind you of something you might have forgotten.   
Both Mr. Potter and Headmaster Dumbledore asked me if I would be  
willing to do so...perhaps they thought it would be easier if an  
unfamiliar face....*  
  
His voice trailed off, leaving the thought hanging.  
  
*What is it? Is something the matter?* Hermione prompted.  
  
*Your parents, Miss Granger.*  
  
Hermione bit her lip to keep from crying out. *What about my parents?  
What's wrong?* she asked cautiously.  
  
*Nothing, for the moment,* he said. *But what if that were not the  
case? Would you be able to accept the fact that your parents, average  
Muggles whose only contact with magic is through you, are in constant  
danger?*  
  
The logical part of Hermione's brain idly wondered how Dumbledore could  
know so much without directly asking her--perhaps the rumor that he was  
clairvoyant really was true? She hadn't mentioned anything to Harry or  
Ron.   
  
The rest of her brain, however, watched her soul shrivel up into a  
little ball, trembling as the worries locked away in the back of her  
mind burst free and flooded her body.  
  
Professor Stanton paused, as if searching for the right words, and   
then continued. *You, I fear, are the only one whose family is truly  
vulnerable. And I would rather have you consider this now, when you   
have time to think about it and prepare for the possibility, than to   
leave you in ignorance and force you to make a horrible choice.*  
  
Hermione felt hot tears welling up, and her eyes stung with the effort   
of keeping them from falling.   
  
*I know,* she said miserably. *Ever since second year, I've worried   
about them. I prayed that they'd be all right, that they'd be safe   
because they were Muggles and didn't have anything to do with magic.   
But I've always told myself to stop being silly, that Ron and Neville   
and everyone else was worried about their families, too, and...and....*  
  
She couldn't finish the sentence. Two tears tricked down her face,   
and she angrily wiped them away with the back of her hand.  
  
*It is not silly, Miss Granger. Things are different with your other  
friends,* Professor Stanton said sharply. *Mr. Weasley's parents and  
siblings are well-versed in magic, able to defend themselves. Mr.  
Potter has no such worries...though I know he would give nearly  
anything to have a family to worry about. Mr. Longbottom's grandmother  
is a most...formidable lady, and she has lived through enough family  
crises to understand the risks. That is why I am offering you, and you  
alone, a choice.*   
  
She blinked rapidly, fighting her tears and vainly trying to digest   
all the information at once. *Wh-what?* she stammered.  
  
*The wizarding world needs people like you. Brilliant, energetic,   
fiercely dedicated--a welcome contrast to the stuffy old relics who  
vainly cling to the past. But you certainly can't stay focused on your   
studies if you are constantly worrying about the safety of your family.   
So, if you will trust me, I swear that I will do everything within my   
power to safeguard your parents' lives.*  
  
Hermione couldn't believe her ears. *You'd protect my parents? Make  
sure that You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters don't hurt them?*  
  
*If you will permit me.* His gentle voice slipped into the same  
speech pattern he had used for his lecture, pedantic and slightly  
ironical. *The Death Eaters, for all their power, restrict themselves  
to the established methods and practices of the wizarding world.  
Completely expected, of course, considering their opinions about  
everything remotely non-magical, but it does limit their options.  
There are other means of protection and defence, more ancient than   
the oldest spells, which they would not find so easy to overcome.*  
  
*Really? Like what?* Hermione asked, her intellectual curiosity piqued  
by the topic of old, unstudied magic.  
  
Professor Stanton didn't seem to hear her--or if he did, he chose to   
ignore the question. *All I ask in return is that you never lose your  
desire to learn, to expand your knowledge. Only in that way, through   
new ideas, will we ever triumph in the battle that should have been won  
long ago.*  
  
It seemed too good to be true. Then again, receiving an owl-delivered   
letter of acceptance to a school for witchcraft and wizardry had also   
seemed too good to be true. *If Harry trusts you, then I trust you,"  
she replied, her heart soaring.  
  
*Excellent,* Professor Stanton said, sounding very satisfied. *I will  
keep you informed on any action I may take concerning your parents.   
They need never know about any of this...unless you choose to tell  
them.*  
  
Hermione didn't know what to say. "Thank you" was certainly not   
enough, but what else was there to say? Nothing appropriate came   
immediately to mind.  
  
She decided to avoid all flowery phrases entirely, and ask the question   
that had been bothering her ever since that morning's lecture.  
Something told her that Professor Stanton would prefer it that way,   
whether he answered her or not. *If I may ask, sir...who are you?   
I mean, if it's all right for me to know.*  
  
He chuckled quietly. *If you truly want more answers, I recommend the  
book, "Ancient Legends of the British Isles"--tenth bookcase on your  
left, second shelf from the top. It is rather dry, and not the most  
comprehensive of explanations, but will be more than enough...until I  
see you again.*  
  
*You will be coming back then? Back to Hogwarts?* she asked eagerly.  
  
*Yes, Miss Granger, with any luck I will. Now, give me a few minutes  
to finish this discussion with Professor Snape, and then you and Mr.  
Longbottom can head back to your dormitory. I don't think either of   
you would want to run into him in his current state.*  
  
"Are you listening to me, Stanton?" Snape's voice returned, the sudden   
jolt back to reality as unexpected as a douse of ice water.  
  
"Of course," Professor Stanton said, blinking slightly. Hermione   
wondered if the abrupt return to normal speech was as jarring for him  
as it had been for her.  
  
"The little parlour trick you performed today in lecture may have   
impressed the students, but not me. And as a result, you've added to   
my normal coursework--today's lesson was a disaster, thanks to you."  
  
Hermione winced, remembering Neville's botched attempt at making the  
Pep Potion assigned for the day's class. Snape had forced him to drink  
the nasty-looking liquid, and Neville had only stopped belching blue   
and green bubbles shortly before dinner. No one else had come close   
to duplicating the mixture Snape had assigned, not even Hermione.   
Predictably, the Potions Master had dismissed them with double   
homework, and had left Neville in his unfortunate condition.  
  
Professor Stanton, undaunted by the accusation, coolly maintained eye   
contact with Snape. "I wasn't trying to impress anyone. I was merely   
emphasizing a fact...one that both young and experienced minds would do  
well to remember."  
  
The complete lack of irony or sarcasm in the response only seemed to   
anger Snape even more. "Leave this place, Stanton. There is nothing   
for you here," he choked out.  
  
"You act as if I came in search of something," Professor Stanton said.   
"I did not. I have no interest in interfering with the normal workings  
of this school. However, we do happen to be on the same side--and the   
sooner you come to accept that, the better off we all will be."  
  
Snape's jaw tightened, but he did not respond.  
  
Professor Stanton bowed slightly, his cloak brushing the stone floor.   
"If you will excuse me, I have a meeting with Headmaster Dumbledore in   
a few moments. Good night, Professor Snape."  
  
Hermione didn't wait to hear the Potion Master's reply. She ran  
lightly through the maze of bookshelves, counting under her breath  
until she reached the tenth one. A breathless moment later, she had  
retrived the desired book and dashed up to Miss Pince's desk.  
  
"Can I have this one, please?" she said, thrusting the book under the   
librarian's nose.  
  
Miss Pince gave her an odd look, but duly stamped the book and waved   
her away. Hermione felt a tap on her shoulder, and turned around to   
see Neville standing there, frowning puzzledly.  
  
"I couldn't find it, Her--"  
  
"Never mind," she said quickly, interrupting him and propelling him   
toward the exit with her free hand. "Let's head back."  
  
Neville found himself being dragged back to the Gryffindor tower  
so quickly that his toes barely touched the floor.  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Gramarye  
gramarye@mailandnews.com  
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/  
December 21st, 2001  
  
-------------------------------------------------------------------- 


	3. Part Three - A Conference

The third part of a Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising series crossover.  
I have an idea for a short epilogue...this isn't over just yet, my   
friends. There's one person I've left out.  
  
(N.B.: This part was revised to fix a few minor wording problems near  
the end--nothing much, but I thought it necessary.)  
  
Thank you for all of your replies and comments--I have a sequel on the  
drawing board, in the beginning stages. I'd like to see what you think   
of this before I continue work on it, but I don't plan to end this here.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and   
various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K.  
Rowlings, Scholastic, and other international companies involved in its  
creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"   
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Town and Gown  
By: Gramarye  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------   
  
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the   
darknesses of other people.  
  
-- Carl Jung  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Ron looked down at his aching fingers, stained with the noxious potion   
ingredients that he had spent the last two hours scrubbing out of smelly  
old jars. Snape's detentions, as always, left a lasting mark on their   
victims. He knew from experience that it would take at least two days   
for the grime to disappear, no matter how thoroughly he washed his   
hands or cleaned his nails.  
  
He was alone in the Gryffindor common room, staring at the flickering   
embers of the fire. Harry had gone straight up to their dormitory after  
everyone had returned from dinner, saying that he had homework to do.   
  
He had been very quiet all day. Even the efforts of his closest friends   
hadn't drawn him into their usual chatter about classes and homework and   
Quidditch. Any attempt at conversation was met with a polite stare that  
looked through rather than at the person speaking to him, and a long   
silence.  
  
As in any school, whispered rumors spread quickly among the students,   
and by the end of the day all the students in Gryffindor House had heard  
about Harry's violent reaction during the lecture. Ron, in the position   
of Harry's unofficial spokesperson, was stuck with the irritating task   
of fending off those who wanted to "do something" for Harry. All day   
long it had been a never-ending cycle of "No, Colin, I don't think it   
would help to give Harry your slice of pudding" and "I'm sorry, Ginny,   
but I don't know what's wrong with Harry--he didn't say" and "Quit   
fretting, Lavender, Harry's fine, he just needs some time alone".   
  
It was enough to make him want to scream.  
  
Hermione hadn't been much help, either. She had officially "given up"   
on Harry at the dinner table, loudly informing everyone in earshot that   
if Mr. Harry Potter didn't want to talk, she wasn't about to make him.   
With Neville in tow, she had headed for the library to finish off   
whatever homework she hadn't already done, and copy over an Arithmancy   
assignment that wasn't due for another three weeks.  
  
Ron, however, had seen the worried expression that crossed her face   
when Harry didn't respond to her proclamation. He hadn't looked up  
from his food--most of which had been left untouched, merely pushed   
around on his plate.   
  
But she had left, and so had Harry, and his day wasn't looking up.   
After dinner, he was due in the dungeons to serve his detention--and   
no one in their right mind would be late for detention with Snape.   
  
Scraping away at the crusted jars and phials, feeling the Potion   
Master's watchful eyes burning into his back, he had felt a tight knot   
of anger growing in the pit of his stomach. Why was Harry being so   
secretive? It was obvious that something was wrong. Every time he   
acted this way, trying to go around as if nothing was bothering him,   
someone always got hurt. Harry's attempts to not cause trouble or   
make other people worry about him always seemed to have the opposite   
effect.  
  
Perhaps the hidden anger made Ron put more effort into his work, or at   
least gave him a reason to focus. Whatever the reason, he finished far   
earlier than he had expected. Snape could find no fault with Ron's   
cleaning; the once-filthy glass bottles managed to sparkle even in the   
gloom of the dungeon. A curt dismissal later, Ron found himself back   
in the Gryffindor tower, falling asleep in an overstuffed chair.  
  
The door to the common room swung open, jerking him out of his doze.   
Hermione and Neville walked in. Or rather, Hermione breezed in, robes   
fluttering behind her, while Neville stumbled in her wake. He was   
panting and gasping for breath.  
  
"Hey, you two, how's everything?" Ron said brightly, sitting up.  
  
Hermione strode past him without a word, her jaw firmly set. A thick,  
leather-bound book was clutched tightly to her chest.   
  
"'Why, I'm quite well, thank you, Ron. How are you tonight?'" he said   
in a high-pitched, squeaky imitation of Hermione's voice. When open   
sarcasm failed to get her attention, he tried a more direct approach.   
"What's wrong with you? Where are you going?"  
  
She mumbled something he couldn't quite hear--he caught something that   
sounded like 'reading legends'--and drifted up the stairs to the girls'  
dormitory.  
  
"Well!" he huffed. His eyes narrowed, and he turned to Neville with a   
forbidding scowl. "I don't suppose you'll be able to tell me what's   
the matter with everyone today."  
  
Neville, still trying to catch his breath, looked rather shell-shocked.   
His mouth opened, but no sound came out. He tried again, but only   
managed a weak cough. He looked helplessly at Ron.  
  
"Oh, don't even bother," Ron snapped. "I'm going to bed."  
  
With that, he stormed up the staircase, leaving Neville alone in the  
common room, his mouth still hanging open.  
  
***  
  
"Would you look at that! Ron Weasley, the youngest Seeker to ever   
play for the Chudley Cannons, has apparently seen the Snitch and is   
going for it, full tilt! Look at that speed, that grace! There's no   
chance that anyone could catch him now! I've never seen a crowd get   
this excited--they're on their feet, all cheering for Ron Weasley,   
Ron Weasley....Ron....Ron....."  
  
"....Ron! Ron! Get up!"  
  
The announcer's triumphant voice faded and dimmed, giving way to an   
urgent whisper that buzzed right next to his ear.   
  
"Grrmph. Go 'way," he said feebly, rolling over and burying his face   
in the bedclothes. So close to winning...all he had to do was reach   
out and grab the Snitch and the game would be--  
  
"Wake up, Ron!" whispered the intrusive voice. A hand touched his   
shoulder, and shook him. Hard.   
  
The lovely vision of the Snitch, the wildly cheering spectators, and   
the Quidditch pitch vanished. His pillow fell to the floor with a   
feathery thud.  
  
"All right, all right, I'm awake...." He sat up and groaned, pushing   
the covers back. He rubbed his bleary eyes, trying to get the room in  
focus. "What time is it? What do you want?"  
  
"It's a little after three." Harry was sitting on the edge of Ron's   
bed, fully dressed. His face was pale in the dim light of the room,   
the jagged scar standing out in livid contrast to his white forehead.  
  
"Harry! It's the middle of the bloody night!" Ron hissed, yanking at   
the bedclothes and pawing around on the floor for his pillow.  
  
"Dumbledore needs to see us. Right now."  
  
That got Ron's attention. "What about?"  
  
Harry stood up, his face hidden by the shadows in the room. "I don't   
know. Get dressed, and hurry."  
  
Ron knew that Harry was lying through his teeth, but got out of bed and  
started to dress as quietly as he could. Faint, rhythmic breathing   
from the other beds indicated that Neville, Seamus, and Dean hadn't   
been disturbed by their whispered conversation. He quickly ran a comb   
through his hair--it wouldn't do to go and see the Headmaster with   
tousled bed head--and fumbled for his wand. The two of them crept   
down the draughty stone stairs.  
  
At the bottom, Professor McGonagall and Hermione were waiting for them.  
Ron's eyes widened at this, but the look on McGonagall's face silenced  
the hundreds of questions that sprang to his lips. The portrait swung   
open, and the three Gryffindor students and their Head of House hurried   
out and down the corridors.   
  
They settled into a brisk trot--closer to a run, Ron thought--passing   
through the numerous hallways and climbing the never-ending staircases   
that led to the massive gargoyle outside Dumbledore's office.   
  
"Jelly Slugs," McGonagall said impatiently.   
  
The gargoyle let them pass.  
  
As the stairs carried them onward and upward, the faint sound of voices   
drifted down from Dumbledore's office. Ron stole a quick look at Harry   
and Hermione. Hermione was toying with a stray strand of her hair, and   
Harry was fiddling with the edge of his robe and tapping his foot.   
  
Ideas came into his head and were just as quickly discarded. Harry was   
in danger. Someone they knew was dead. You-Know-Who and the Death   
Eaters were about to attack Hogwarts. The Dementors and the giants had   
officially declared their allegiance to the Dark Lord, and had joined   
his forces.   
  
Everyone knew that something was wrong, something important was about  
to happen.  
  
Everyone knew...everyone but him.  
  
He opened his mouth to say something, anything to break the awkward   
silence, but McGonagall swept forward and ushered them into the office   
before he could collect his thoughts.  
  
Several chairs were gathered in a circle in the centre of the large   
room. None of them were occupied. In the middle of the circle stood   
Dumbledore, his kind eyes troubled and serious. Next to him, still   
draped in the long dark cloak that he had worn earlier that day, was   
Professor Stanton.  
  
McGonagall cleared her throat. "Headmaster, I've brought the three of   
them, as you requested," she said.  
  
"Come in, all of you. Sit down. And do have some cocoa," Dumbledore   
said briskly, gesturing to a small table where four steaming mugs of   
hot chocolate waited. McGonagall looked as if she were about to   
protest, but Dumbledore waved her inside. "Come, come, Minerva...the   
school won't fall to pieces if you're not out patrolling the halls.   
Dr. Stanton would like to hear your opinion on this discussion."  
  
At the mention of his name, a placid smile lit up Professor Stanton's   
grave face, and he made a rather old-fashioned bow. "Miss Granger,   
Mr. Weasley, Mr. Potter. A pleasure to see you all again. And my   
dear Professor McGonagall...enchanted, as always."  
  
"Glad to see you, sir," he heard Harry and Hermione say in almost   
choreographed unison, and chimed in hastily, half a beat behind.  
  
Once they had all taken their seats and were sipping the delicious   
drink, Dumbledore turned to Professor Stanton. "Now, where were we?"   
he asked.  
  
"I think we should start again from the beginning, Headmaster," the   
visiting professor said. "Though I have spoken to Mr. Potter and Miss   
Granger, I have not yet had the chance to talk to Mr. Weasley." He   
turned to Ron, steepling his fingers in a thoughtful pose. "My sincere  
apologies, Mr. Weasley--I'm afraid it was my fault that you received   
your detention with Professor Snape."  
  
Ron clenched his hands. He could still feel the dirt from the potion   
jars, gritty under his nails. The soreness in his fingers, which had   
quieted to a dull throb, returned with a sharp vengeance. All of the   
stress and nervous tension that had been building up over the course of   
the day, ever since he had seen Harry's glassy-eyed, frozen stare in   
the lecture hall, buzzed and sang in his head, making him feel sick to   
his stomach.  
  
"I don't care about that," he snapped, the harsh words spoken in a sour,  
thick sneer that didn't sound like it could have come from his mouth.   
"Just who do you think you are, coming here and scaring us all to death   
for no reason, as if we didn't have enough to worry about already!"  
  
"Mr. Weasley!" boomed McGonagall in a terrible voice, at the same time   
that he heard Harry and Hermione hiss a warning "Ron!". He didn't   
acknowledge them, but kept his angry eyes fixed on Professor Stanton's   
calm ones.  
  
Professor Stanton didn't look away. He returned Ron's furious glare   
with a steady, honest gaze, unblinking and almost serene.  
  
"Miss Granger," he said, not taking his eyes off of Ron's, "did you   
happen to finish the book you borrowed from the library?"  
  
"Y-yes, sir," Hermione said hesitantly, sounding startled.  
  
"Did you find anything of interest? If you can remember anything, would   
you be so kind as to tell us about it?"  
  
Staring into Professor Stanton's eyes, Ron felt curiously lightheaded,   
but he was unable to look away. Hermione's voice, when she started to   
speak, drifted into his mind as if carried to him on a gentle breeze.   
  
"'One of the most obscure and poorly documented legends of the British   
Isles concerns a group of people known only as the 'Old Ones'.   
According to stories passed down through the years, they are a race of   
immortals who serve the power of absolute good, known to them as the   
Light. Their sole purpose was to protect the world from a force of   
ultimate evil, the Dark. Very little is known about these enigmatic   
beings, but it is believed that they commanded some of the most powerful  
magic of all time. The oldest, and most powerful of the Old Ones, was   
said to be none other than Merlin himself.'"  
  
Ron's throat went dry, and a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. He   
was falling down, sinking into the stormy blue-grey depths of the eyes   
that held his own without blinking.  
  
*Just relax...calm yourself...* he heard Professor Stanton say. As if   
a coiled spring had been released, he felt the horrible tension leave   
his body in a rush. He let out the breath he had been tightly holding.   
Suddenly, a series of blurred images, not quite in focus, flashed through   
his mind like a flurry of snow.   
  
There was a boy, not much younger than him, holding up a linked chain   
from which hung six round medallions of varying colours. The boy's   
serious yet proud smile faded into a small harp of gold, beautiful and  
fragile-looking. Next came a chalice, also of shining gold, covered   
with strange lines and symbols, and from a glint of light off the rim   
of the chalice he caught sight of a magnificent sword, burning with   
blue fire. Brief glimpses of men dressed in what looked like tunics   
and short cloaks flashed by, running and fighting an unseen enemy.   
And last, he saw a tall, white-haired old man with a stern, sad face,   
staring into the far distance at something only he could see.   
  
His mind whirled and spun, clearing just enough for Professor Stanton's   
deep voice to make itself heard.   
  
"Well done, Miss Granger. Were I in a position to give points to your   
House, I would not hesitate to do so. Was there anything else in the   
book which you happen to recall?"  
  
The airy voice, so different from Hermione's usual confident tones,   
drifted back into Ron's thoughts. "'The only other Old One about which   
anything is known is the youngest one, called the Sign-Seeker--and he is   
known only by his title. Yet after the great battle in which the Dark   
was finally defeated, the Sign-Seeker, Merlin, and all of the Old Ones   
apparently disappeared from the world of magic. The legend has it that   
the Sign-Seeker returned to a hidden place to act as the Watchman for   
the Light, keeping vigil in case their power should be needed again.'"  
  
Professor Stanton blinked, and with a sudden jolt Ron found himself back   
in Dumbledore's office.   
  
He felt weak and dizzy, as if he had been looking down from an immense  
height and had only just stepped back from the edge. His unseeing eyes   
darted wildly around the room, from Harry to Dumbledore to Hermione to   
McGonagall and returned to Professor Stanton, who had leaned back in his   
chair and was lost in some private contemplation.  
  
There was a long silence, broken only by Ron's ragged breathing.  
  
"That's the thing about legends," Harry said softly, almost wonderingly.   
"They always seem to have a basis in fact."  
  
"Merlin...you knew MERLIN?!" Ron said at last, his voice rising into a   
fear-filled squeak.   
  
It was the only thing he could grab hold of. Everything was coming   
at him without warning, all at once, too impossible for him to   
believe...this man, who could not have been much older than Professor   
Snape, actually knew and had once worked with the greatest wizard of   
all time....  
  
He felt a gentle pressure on his shoulder, and looked up to see Harry  
and Hermione standing in front him, smiling reassuringly.  
  
"It's all right, Ron," Harry said, a comforting hand on his best   
friend's trembling shoulder. "It takes some getting used to. Believe   
me, I know...why d'you think I've been so out of it all day? It   
wasn't until a few hours ago that things actually started to make   
sense."  
  
"I'm glad I had a book to help me," Hermione said. Her confident grin  
faltered. "But even with a book...well, let's just say I wasn't exactly   
fast asleep when Professor McGonagall came to get me."  
  
"Let him be," Dumbledore said in a voice that would allow no argument.  
"Give him a moment or two--everything will be all right."  
  
Both Harry and Hermione nodded, and sat down again.  
  
"Now, Dr. Stanton," Dumbledore continued, peering over the tops of his   
spectacles. "Before we begin, I must apologize once again for   
interrupting your busy schedule."  
  
"Busy?" Professor Stanton waved one hand dismissively. "It is no   
trouble to request personal leave from the university, or arrange for   
a research sabbatical of undefined length. I had actually planned to   
attend a conference in America this Michaelmas term, but recent events   
take top priority. I am more than happy to be of service--especially   
as an outside consultant."  
  
Dumbledore smiled faintly. Something seemed to be preventing his smile   
from fully appearing. "You understand the need for assistance from all   
levels, I trust?"  
  
"Of course. I only wish you had called me sooner."  
  
McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. "Sooner? I take it that the Ministry of   
Magic didn't bother to contact you--not that I'm surprised," she added,  
taking a sip of her cocoa as if to clear a nasty taste from her mouth.  
  
"One living legend on the case is enough for them, I suppose," Professor   
Stanton said. "And from what Mr. Potter has told me, they're none too   
pleased with him, either."  
  
Dumbledore cast a look at Harry, who nodded in grudging agreement.   
"They underestimated him, the fools. They underestimated both him and  
Voldemort. I can only hope it won't get us all killed in the end."  
  
Ron had to exercise all of his self-control to keep from flinching at   
each mention of the horrible name. Inwardly, he scolded himself for   
acting like a child--the people in this room had every right to openly   
name You-Know-Who. But he secretly wished they wouldn't...he had the   
oddest feeling that by saying...that name...out loud, someone very   
unpleasant--maybe even HIM--might *hear* it....  
  
"Not if I have anything to say about it," Professor Stanton said darkly,  
breaking off Ron's train of thought. "And I have far less to lose than  
you, or Mr. Potter, or any of those fools who are clinging to their   
comfortable positions of power, willing to make others miserable if it  
will keep them in their jobs."  
  
His voice took on the tone of an irritated professor lecturing a lazy  
student who had turned in an assignment covered with spilled ink.   
"Which brings me to another point...there is far too much of this 'town   
and gown' strife going on in the wizarding world. Heaven knows it   
blinds people as to who the real enemy is."  
  
"'Town and gown'?" Professor McGonagall repeated, frowning. "To be   
fair, Professor Stanton, I would hardly say that--"  
  
Professor Stanton held up a hand to stop her. "I'm not placing any   
blame on you, please understand. Perhaps, Professor, it is just the   
statement of one with a low opinion of human nature. But I suspect   
that it is all too apparent to these students here."   
  
Seeing the confusion on the children's faces, he leaned forward and   
spoke directly to them. "You might not know the exact definition of   
'town and gown' syndrome, but you see something like it every day, at   
all different levels. Wizards and witches versus Muggles, pureblood   
versus half-blood and Muggle-born--it is all too present, and very real.   
When you hear such choice epithets as 'Muggle-lover' and 'Mudblood'   
bandied about the halls of this school, and see the sneers on the faces   
of those who should be too young to know hate...."   
  
He leaned back wearily in his chair. McGonagall's mouth was a thin,   
tight line in her pointed face, and one hand fingered the brooch at  
her throat.  
  
"People feel threatened when those whom they fear have power. It   
happens all the time, even in the Muggle world--but you are right, my   
dear sir, it is a most serious problem. One that I have done my best to  
eliminate," Dumbledore said gravely.  
  
"You're a better man than I, Headmaster," Professor Stanton said, his  
round face inscrutable.  
  
Hermione half-raised her hand, but remembered where she was and quickly   
lowered it. "Speaking of power, do you believe that You-Know...I mean,  
Voldemort's power could be connected with the Dark? Residual magic, or   
something of the sort?"  
  
There was another long silence.  
  
Professor Stanton stood abruptly, and walked over to Fawkes' cage. He   
studied the sleeping phoenix for a tense moment, then turned back to   
the seated group.   
  
To Ron's eyes, it was as if a mask had fallen away. Professor Stanton   
looked older somehow, older than McGonagall, even older than Dumbledore.  
He also looked very tired, like someone had drained all the energy out   
of him.   
  
"I see you've been doing some extra reading, Miss Granger," he said   
reflectively, almost to himself. "Residual power of the Dark...it is   
quite possible. The timing is irritatingly coincidental."   
  
"What makes you say that, sir?" Harry asked.  
  
"The Dark was defeated, driven out of Time, in a great battle that took  
place nearly thirty years ago. There is no question about that. But  
they would have certainly leapt at the chance to continue their legacy   
in human form, where it would not have been eradicated in the final   
battle. Voldemort--or, at that time, Tom Riddle--would have gained in   
exchange the power of the Dark. A lesser form, to be true, but an evil   
that the wizarding world would not be able to defeat without outside   
knowledge."   
  
He paused, picked up his mug of hot chocolate, and drank from it. When   
he spoke again, his voice held a different note, colder and more remote.   
"All in all, it would have been a very beneficial agreement."  
  
"Don't blame yourself." Dumbledore's voice was crisp, cutting through   
the bitterness that had permeated the room. "This was not your fight,   
not your responsibility. You won your battle...it is different, this   
time around."  
  
Professor Stanton whirled around, dark cloak swirling as he flung it   
over one shoulder. His round face was no longer pleasant, but icy  
and forbidding. He seemed to grow taller, to fill the room with his  
presence.  
  
"Different in what way?" he demanded, in a voice so sharp that Ron   
shrank back in his chair, shivering at the power and authority in it.   
"That innocent people have died, are dying? That the boundaries   
between friend and enemy are so clearly defined, and yet are more   
vague than ever?"  
  
"Different, in the fact that you have allies who are willing to join  
forces, unite against the common enemy and defeat him. It is not the  
Light alone who wish to see the Dark destroyed." Dumbledore's voice  
rang out gloriously, like a carillon of church bells on Christmas Day.  
  
The true meaning of the words slowly sank into the room, leaving   
everyone awestruck and overwhelmed at their weight.   
  
On his perch, Fawkes stirred himself and fell back asleep.  
  
The coldness faded from Professor Stanton's face, leaving it once more  
expressionless. He sat down.   
  
"Well, I'm glad we're all in agreement," he said, his voice suddenly   
back to its light, placid tones. "The question is: what exactly are   
we do to? Or more accurately, what would you have me do?"  
  
"We need your knowledge of the Dark," said Dumbledore, looking relieved   
that the conversation had returned to more technical matters. "Only   
you can tell us if Voldemort has accepted that power, and if there is   
anything you or we can do to deal with it."  
  
"If he has the power of the Dark, then I will need some time to devise  
a strategy. My resources in this time are limited, and if this work is  
to be done without alerting the Dark, certain precautions must be taken."  
  
"Such as?" McGonagall asked.  
  
"All further communications to me must go by Muggle post. I will pay   
the costs, of course," he added with a slight smile. "No need for any  
trouble on your part, but it will give an added measure of security.   
If I think of anything else, or learn of any developments, I will let  
you know, Headmaster."  
  
"That sounds agreeable, Dr. Stanton," Dumbledore said, nodding sagely.  
"Do you have any preferences as to--"  
  
"Excuse me, sir?" The words were out of Ron's mouth before he knew   
he had spoken them.  
  
Dumbledore had raised one hand to add emphasis to his interrupted words.  
He let it fall back to his lap. "Yes, Ron, what is it?"  
  
"Is something wrong, Mr. Weasley?" Professor Stanton said, looking very  
concerned.  
  
Ron gathered all his courage. He wasn't going to rush into things   
foolishly this time; he knew just what he had to say, and with any luck,   
he would be able to say it in a way that wouldn't make him look like a   
complete ass.   
  
"Why *us*, sir? Why Hermione? Why me? Harry, he's obvious. I can   
understand. And Hermione," he said, catching sight of her bright red   
face and dangerously shining eyes, and consequently taking refuge in   
babble, "would probably kill me right here if I didn't tell you that   
she's bloody brilliant, pardon my language, but I'm sure you knew that   
already, sir, and I know we've pulled off a few things before, but   
you'd be better off just working with Harry and Hermione here, and I   
won't tell anyone about this, I swear, sir, and--"  
  
"You need three, Mr. Weasley."  
  
Ron nearly fell out of his chair.   
  
He had expected the usual reassurances. He'd heard them said many times   
before, from different people who all managed to say the same thing.   
"Because you're important, Ron" or "Because you're a brave, smart lad,   
Ron" or "Because you're my best friend, Ron" or any of the other pat  
statements that never quite rang true in his mind. He knew all the  
arguments to them--he'd rehearsed them in his head, waiting for just  
such an occasion.  
  
This was different.  
  
"Three?" Harry repeated.  
  
Professor Stanton nodded. "It's always three. It has to be three."  
  
"Three of what?" Ron asked, looking at anything but Hermione. He could   
still feel her gaze on him, and didn't want to look and see if she was   
still angry. Better to assume that she was, and wait for her to calm   
down.  
  
"Three is the magic number, am I right?" Professor Stanton's voice took  
on a lilting rhythm, lyrical and flowing like poetry. "The great fairy   
stories always have things in threes. Three tasks to perform, three   
sleeping princesses, three Fates, three of everything. There is good   
reason, of course. Nothing is ever done in magic without good reason.  
  
"For where one can be defeated, and two can be overcome, three have true   
power. And the power of three calls upon echoes of the past...previous   
examples that I can recall."   
  
He smiled at Harry. "A scared young boy, one grown old before his time,   
who had to learn what he was and how to cope with the awesome, horrifying  
burden of his duty. Terrified that he'll hurt others. Always knowing   
that he was different, and suddenly learning why. But even with all his   
fears and insecurities, he managed to do the right thing, time and again."  
  
He turned to Hermione. "Now I remember a diligent student, thrust   
into a world completely different than anything that his previous   
learning of science could have taught him. But once the initial shock   
had passed, he threw himself into the studies of the new world with a   
passion only matched by a determination to do what was right."  
  
His eyes gazed thoughtfully at Ron. "Another boy, the youngest son of   
a large family, who once imagined that his life was defined only by   
those who had gone before him. Yet in time, he discovered that he was   
not merely one face in a crowd, or a legacy of his memorable family, but   
was instead a person of great courage, willing to do whatever it would   
take to protect and defend his true friends.  
  
His voice swelled, filled with a wisdom that crossed the ages,   
hearkening back to time immemorial. "And together, three mortal   
children, two boys and a girl, who unknowingly accepted an immense   
responsibility that brought them together...and created an unbreakable   
bond. That is how the Dark is defeated, using that bond betwen the   
three of you, with others to support and guide you along the way."  
  
He regarded them for a minute, a critical assessment, and then stood up.   
"And you'll win. I have no doubt of that."  
  
None of them knew what to say. Even Dumbledore was silent.  
  
Professor Stanton removed a gold watch from somewhere within his cloak,   
and checked the time. He closed it with a tiny snap. "But I've kept   
all of you up far too long. The sun will soon be up, and even though   
it's Friday, I don't think you'll get much sleep."  
  
The return to normal time signaled a definite end to the discussion.  
Dumbledore got out of his chair, and the two men shook hands. Harry,   
Ron, Hermione, and Professor McGonagall also stood, and moved forward  
to say their goodbyes.  
  
"If you need anything, Professor Stanton," McGonagall said firmly,   
"don't hesitate to let us know. The faculty at Hogwarts will do our   
very best to accommodate you, should you need our help."  
  
"My thanks, Professor," he said. Taking her outstretched hand, he  
bowed over it with a courtly, archaic flourish. McGonagall pressed  
her free hand to her heart, pleasantly surprised. A faint flush  
crept into her wrinkled cheeks.  
  
Hermione stepped forward. "Is that the only book there is on...on  
your kind, sir?"  
  
"No, Miss Granger," said Professor Stanton. "But the fun is in the   
looking, wouldn't you agree?"  
  
The glitter in Hermione's eyes said that she certainly did.  
  
Harry stared up at the tall man as he held out his hand. "You never   
did show it to me, you know."  
  
"Show what, young man?"  
  
"Your scar," Harry said, looking very serious. "You said you would, if   
I asked."  
  
Wordlessly, Professor Stanton lifted his left arm. He pushed back the   
sleeve of his dark suit jacket, unfastened his shirt cuff, and rolled  
back the white sleeve. On his inner part of his forearm was a shiny   
scar, clearly marked in a circle quartered by four lines.   
  
He held it out to Harry, who stared at it for a moment, his eyes   
tracing the pattern of the circle quartered by the cross. Suddenly,  
Harry winced, and grabbed at his head. He staggered backward, hissing   
in pain.  
  
"Harry!" Hermione and Ron shouted, and leapt forward to steady their   
friend. McGonagall darted forward with arms outstretched, but stopped   
short as Dumbledore laid a restraining hand on her shoulder.   
  
Harry shook his head, as if to clear it, and looked up at Professor   
Stanton with wide, frightened eyes.  
  
The tall professor rolled down his sleeve, and fastened the buttons at   
the cuff. "It is not something I am proud of, Mr. Potter. Long ago,   
I did a very foolish thing, and this scar, like all scars, is a reminder   
of something that I wish could be undone. But do not be so eager to see   
another's scar again, Mr. Potter, lest it remind you of your own."  
  
Harry gulped, and gingerly touched his forehead. "I won't, sir. I'm   
sorry."  
  
Ron handed Harry to Hermione and walked up to Professor Stanton, trying   
to keep his hand from shaking as he held it out. "Goodbye, sir."  
  
"Goodbye, Mr. Weasley. I'd like to speak to you again...I hope next   
time we will have more chance to talk in private."  
  
"I'd like that, sir."  
  
Professor Stanton squeezed his hand in a solid handshake, and gave a  
courteous little bow. He stepped back, into the centre of the circle   
of chairs, and nodded in farewell to all of them. The air around him   
began to shimmer, rippling like the heat radiated from the ground on a   
hot summer's day, and he vanished.  
  
As the sun dawned over the lofty spires and craggy towers of the famous  
Hogwarts Academy, both students and staff alike shifted in their beds   
as the faint sound of bell-like music whispered its way into their   
dreams.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Gramarye  
gramarye@mailandnews.com  
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/  
December 30th, 2001 


	4. Epilogue - A Remembrance

Last, but not least, the epilogue of a Harry Potter/The Dark Is Rising   
series crossover. Just tying together a few loose ends. And I don't   
plan to let this concept go--stay tuned for the sequel, which will come   
along once I sit down and figure out exactly what to do with all my   
possible ideas.  
  
Once again, thanks go out to my reviewers for your kind replies and   
comments. (Kind hearts and coronets...er, sorry, wrong topic.) I'm  
glad to see that so many people enjoy both Susan Cooper and J. K.  
Rowlings, both true grande dames of British fantasy literature. And  
their worlds combine so *well*...I just couldn't resist.  
  
I owe a great debt to the Harry Potter Lexicon (conveniently located   
at http://www.i2k.com/~svderark/lexicon/index.html) for giving me an   
idea for this part of the story. If you want to know what the idea  
was, go take a look for it--you'll find it, if you want to.  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Harry Potter, all related characters, and   
various media incarnations are copyright of the very talented J. K.  
Rowlings, Scholastic, and other international companies involved in its  
creation and distribution. Will Stanton and "The Dark Is Rising"   
series are both copyright of the wonderful Susan Cooper.  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Town and Gown  
By: Gramarye  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------   
  
Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the   
darknesses of other people.  
  
-- Carl Jung  
  
-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
As those who are familiar with the Old Ones and their ways know, the   
concept of Time has little to no meaning to them. Loosely planted   
within Time, they are able to move freely, always respecting but never   
bound by its conventional limitations. Hermione's Time Turner may have  
allowed her to turn back the clock long enough to fit in an extra class   
or two, but an Old One has unrestricted access to the past, and the   
ability to affect the flow of time if need arises.  
  
Neville Longbottom, however, didn't know any of these things.  
  
Which might explain his complete shock when he woke up just before dawn   
to find the strange professor from yesterday's lecture standing at the   
foot of his bed, silently watching him.  
  
To his credit, he didn't scream, or faint, or do anything that might   
have caused him further embarrassment. Instead, he froze, staring at   
the unexpected visitor with the petrified eyes of a small animal caught   
in the headlights of a speeding car.  
  
"Hello, Mr. Longbottom," the strange professor said.  
  
Neville attempted to speak, but only succeeding in making a weak sound   
that was closer to a croak. Speech was simply not coming to him today.  
  
The visitor didn't seem to notice Neville's inability to speak. His   
round face was solemn, but his blue-grey eyes had a kind smile all   
their own.   
  
"Don't be frightened," he said softly, moving to stand by the side of   
the bed. "I'm sorry to startle you, but I could either wait for you to   
wake on your own or shake you awake. I chose the former--for a reason."  
  
Neville didn't answer for fear that his voice would continue to fail   
him. He managed to nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.  
  
"May I sit down?" the professor asked. Before Neville could respond,   
he continued, "I wouldn't normally impose, but I have quite a bit of   
traveling to do after I leave here, and I think it would be more   
comfortable for both of us if I sat."  
  
"I-i-if you w-want t-t-to, sir." Neville's stammer was more pronounced   
than usual, but at least his voice had decided to start working again.   
He scuttled backward in bed, making room for the tall man to sit on the   
edge.  
  
"Thank you. That's most kind." There was the soft swish of a cloak   
and the rocking creak of bedsprings as the older man sat down.  
  
Neville squinted in the dim light, taking a closer look at his visitor.   
"You're Professor...Stanton? Is that--am I right?" He rubbed his eyes   
and blinked a few times, hoping his eyes would adjust. "I just want to  
make sure...you see, sir, I tend to forget things. 'Specially names."  
  
"Your memory is working fine, Mr. Longbottom."  
  
Neville shivered slightly. The words 'Mr. Longbottom', spoken by   
Professor Stanton, sounded strange. They created distorted and very   
discomforting echoes in his mind. It was hard to think. He didn't   
understand why, but it was a little like being called on in class when   
he didn't know the answer. The same sick feeling, like a bad case of   
vertigo, but somehow different. He shook his head, trying to get rid   
of the dizziness.  
  
"It's Neville, sir," he said, plucking at a loose thread on his   
blanket. "Please call me Neville."  
  
"Fine then, Neville. Any reason why?"  
  
Professor Stanton looked concerned, so Neville hastily tried to think   
of an explanation. "No, no reason, sir. Well, not really. It's just  
that...." he trailed off, gnawing on his lip.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"It's...." His mind worked frantically, searching for something that  
sounded reasonable, or at the very least, not too daft. After an  
agonizing moment, he hit upon an answer that was not far from the   
truth. "It's just that you sound a little like Professor Snape when  
you call me 'Mr. Longbottom', sir."  
  
Even in the half-light, Neville could see one eyebrow raise--whether it   
was in surprise or irritation or some other emotion, he couldn't tell.  
  
"Ah," Professor Stanton said, his voice expressionless.  
  
Neville grimaced. As usual, he'd said the wrong thing; nothing to do   
now but try to cover it up. "Just a little, sir. I mean, I know you   
can't help it, but--"  
  
Professor Stanton held up a hand, stopping him before he could sink   
deeper into his own explanation. "Relax, Neville, it's perfectly fine.   
No need to explain. In any case, I don't think Professor Snape would   
like to know that I was running around this school sounding like him.   
It would only give him one more thing to be upset about--and if anyone   
doesn't need that, it's him."  
  
Neville laughed in spite of himself, then clapped a hand over his   
mouth. Professor Stanton stared at him for a moment with a curious   
light in his eyes. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he chuckled   
as well, quietly.  
  
Hearing the older man laugh made Neville feel as though a great weight   
had fallen off his shoulders. The tension went away. He smiled shyly,  
but the smile quickly faded as he remembered where he was and, more   
importantly, what time it was.   
  
"Won't...won't the others wake up, sir?" he said softly, glancing   
around the room. His vision still hadn't completely adjusted to the   
dim light, and he was having a hard time seeing much of anything past   
the end of his bed.  
  
"No," said Professor Stanton. "Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley are in the   
Headmaster's office. Mr. Finnigan and Mr. Thomas are fast asleep.   
They won't wake for a while...which is why I chose this time to come   
and speak with you." He sighed, and added ruefully, "I've had such   
wretched timing today--at least this one meeting should go smoothly."  
  
"You wanted to see me?" Neville squeaked. No one--well, no one who was  
important--ever wanted to see him, unless he had done something wrong.  
  
Professor Stanton smiled. "I have something to give you. There's a   
particular story that goes with it; the gift won't make much sense to   
you unless you hear the story behind it. Do you have the time to hear   
it, or would I be keeping you from something else?"  
  
Neville couldn't believe his ears. Professor Stanton sounded like he  
would be dragging Neville away from the last five minutes of a tied  
Quidditch World Cup match to make him listen to a simple story.  
  
"No, please! Please tell me," he begged.  
  
"All right, all right," said Professor Stanton. He cleared his throat,  
and his eyes clouded over briefly, as if he was searching in his mind   
for a proper place to begin the story. When he started to speak, his   
voice was light and placid, his words smoothly weaving a tale that soon   
held Neville spellbound.  
  
"I'd like to say it was a dark and stormy night when the whole thing   
took place. It certainly should have been, in my opinion--there's   
nothing like foul weather for properly setting the mood. In reality,   
it had merely been drizzling all day, and the overcast sky was not   
dark, but a murky grey. Typically miserable Cambridgeshire weather.   
But I'm straying from the topic already.  
  
"It was nearly fifteen years ago, this incident. I was in my rooms at  
the university, proofreading a term paper for another student. I don't  
really recall what the paper was about, only that the spelling and   
grammar were absolutely horrible. The thesis and writing style weren't  
much better. It was painful to read. But as I was sitting there,   
scribbling away at it with a red pencil, I heard a loud thud against my   
window.  
  
"Now, my room at the time was on the third floor, too high for anyone   
to reach. Not even a cat could have climbed up there. My first  
thought was to ignore it, but when I heard the thud again, I got up   
and opened the window. Huddled on the tiny ledge outside was a  
shivering, exhausted, and soaking wet owl, carrying a bundle of papers.  
  
"I must confess, I was very startled. It was three in the afternoon,   
far too early for owls to be out. The owl, however, had other plans.   
It flopped in through the open window, landing in a soggy heap on the   
floor. As it hit the ground, it let go of the bundle it had been   
clutching. Smoothing it out, I saw that it was a copy of a newspaper  
that I had not seen for a long time--The Daily Prophet.   
  
"Oh, I knew what it was...I am no stranger to the wizarding world. But   
the newspaper was five days old, and very battered. The messenger owl  
looked battered as well; it must have been flying for some time before  
it found me. I thought the paper had been misdirected, intended for   
someone else and delivered to me by accident.  
  
"'Why have you brought me this? Are you lost?' I asked the owl, which   
had righted itself and was trying to put its feathers back in order.  
  
"Owls, like all birds, do not use an actual language. Their method of   
communication, while more advanced than that of most bird species, is a   
combination of sounds and gestures that suggest a meaning instead of a   
series of words. This owl gave me a sharp look and a single hoot,   
clearly pointing out that not only was the paper meant for me, I should   
quit being a damn fool and read what it had taken such pains to bring.  
  
"I opened the wet paper and glanced at the headlines."  
  
Professor Stanton paused. A shadow of some hidden emotion passed   
across his face, so rapidly that it was nothing more than a flicker,  
quickly controlled.   
  
"What has your grandmother told you about your parents?" he said   
suddenly. The casual storytelling tone had vanished from his voice,   
leaving it very quiet and serious.  
  
Neville's jaw dropped, then snapped shut. The abrupt change of pace   
and topic was disorienting, like stopping a film halfway through the   
reel, without explanation. He stared uncertainly at the visiting   
professor, wondering if he had heard the question properly.  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind, a little voice, shaky but clear,   
whispered, *Run...get away...hurry....*  
  
Professor Stanton eyes narrowed, which only increased Neville's  
discomfort. "I understand that it is painful for you to discuss," he  
said, gently but firmly. "Yet it is very important that I have all  
the facts. Does she--your grandmother--speak of them at all?"  
  
Neville stared down at the blanket wrapped around his knees. It was   
thick and warm and soft, but it wasn't giving him any answers.   
  
The tiny voice suddenly returned, louder this time and more insistent.   
*Get away, Neville...get out of here...hurry...* it pleaded urgently.   
It took a great effort for him to ignore it and answer Professor   
Stanton's question.   
  
"Not really," he said haltingly, as if he did not know how to respond   
properly. "I know why they're...like that...'cause Gran told me. She   
said they were attacked by Death Eaters, and tortured. They went mad   
under torture. I was just a baby then, so I went to live with Gran.   
Mum and Dad are at St. Mungo's, in a private room, together. Before I   
went off to school, we--Gran and I, that is--would go visit them every   
Sunday. Now I see them at Christmas and during holidays. Gran always   
tells me to talk to them, tell them about school and stuff. She says   
they can hear me, even if they don't answer."  
  
He sank back against the pillow, feeling ill. He'd never said so much   
about his parents to any one person before. People either knew about   
them and didn't mention it, or didn't know and didn't ask. It was a   
new experience, talking about them so openly.   
  
He wasn't sure if he liked it.  
  
"Do you think they hear you? Understand you?" Professor Stanton's   
face was in shadow, but his eyes glittered with a compassionate light.  
  
"I...I don't know, sir," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.   
"I hope so."  
  
Professor Stanton nodded brusquely. "Did your grandmother say where you  
were when the...incident occurred?"  
  
"Yes," Neville said quickly, a hint of the relief he felt slipping   
into his voice. At last, here was a question he could answer with some   
degree of certainty. "I was at Gran's that night. She told me that   
Mum and Dad had left me with her, overnight. I was with Gran when the   
Death-Eaters came."  
  
"Were you, then...." It was a statement, not a question.  
  
"That's what she told me," Neville said, frowning.  
  
Professor Stanton did not reply. He stood up, the bedsprings creaking  
irritably at the movement. Reaching into his cloak, he pulled from its   
folds a long white envelope. He held it up in his left hand, studying   
it carefully. Apparently satisfied that he had found the desired   
object, he held out his right hand and with the grace of a conjuring   
trick produced his spectacles, seemingly out of thin air.   
  
Neville's sharp indrawn breath was a loud hiss in the silence of the   
room. Professor Stanton settled the glasses on his nose, then opened   
the envelope and removed a folded piece of paper. It crackled as he   
unfolded it, and even in the low light, Neville could see that it was   
not ordinary paper, but newsprint.  
  
"'The one blessing that has come from this despicable event is the fact  
that young Neville Longbottom, their only son, was not harmed. He is   
currently in the care of other relatives and has been placed under   
protection. The Department of Magical Law Enforcement has issued a   
statement, vowing that the perpetrators of this terrible crime will be   
brought to justice.'"  
  
Neville winced. The inexplicable echoes had returned, growing stronger  
as Professor Stanton read aloud from the newspaper clipping. The tiny   
warning voice in his mind had also returned, though it wasn't so tiny   
anymore.   
  
In fact, it was quite loud. It was loud and strident, leaping about,   
coming from everywhere and nowhere. *Get out get OUT you have to   
hurry hurry what are you waiting for get out NOW....*  
  
*Shut up!* Neville's conscious mind cried out.  
  
*Please...* the voice begged, half sobbing and half shouting.  
  
Neville whimpered, breathing fast. There was a loud thudding sound,   
rapid and rhythmic--was it his heart? He felt sick. Not sick enough   
to actually BE sick, but enough to want to sit down even though he was   
already sitting. It didn't make sense, but there it was. He took a   
few deep breaths, hoping to calm down. The air tasted slick and   
metallic, sour in his throat.  
  
"It does not say so outright, but it suggests that you were there the   
entire time, Neville." The echoes made his stomach lurch violently.   
"You were there, and you saw exactly what the Death-Eaters did to your  
parents. Perhaps, knowing their sadistic sense of humour, they may have   
even forced you to watch them--"  
  
"NO!" Neville screamed, throwing his arms up in defence against a   
nonexistant threat. "I wasn't there! I was with Gran! She told me!  
She didn't lie to me...she wouldn't lie to me...."  
  
The burst of strength left him. He collapsed in a sobbing heap on   
the bed, curling up into a tight ball and twisting the bedclothes  
around him. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to die.  
  
For a long time, the only sound in the room was that of Neville's   
broken weeping.  
  
He felt something--a hand, it felt like--touch his shoulder. He   
flinched at the contact, trying to pull away. The hand did not let go,   
but grasped his shoulder firmly, helping him to sit up in bed. Another   
hand touched his chin, tilting his head and making him look up.   
  
Through his tears, he could see a hazy figure, surrounded by a strange  
bright light. Professor Stanton was standing over him. The strange   
light radiated from him, filling the room with its warm glow. Neville   
gasped in delighted awe as a tingling feeling ran through his body,   
a sense of comfort and peace which washed over him in soothing waves.   
He felt the horrible, sick feelings drain out of him, leaving him limp   
and exhausted. He was more tired than he could ever remember being.   
But he was safe. Nothing would harm him, nothing dared to harm him  
while Professor Stanton was here.  
  
And Professor Stanton was speaking to him in calm, reassuring tones.  
"She did not lie to you. I am not lying to you now. But where the lie  
and reality meet, everything is blurred--and there is a reason."  
  
The glow faded, but the sense of protection still lingered in the room,  
alert and watchful. Neville lay back in bed. From some hidden recess   
in his cloak, Professor Stanton produced a handkerchief, and handed it   
to him. He gratefully took it and blew his nose, scrubbing the tear   
marks from his face.  
  
"I had to be certain, Neville," Professor Stanton said sadly. "I   
didn't want to put you through that, but I could not tell whether your  
rescuers had used the 'Obliviate' spell on you...while I can sense most  
charms of that sort, it would have been cast so long ago that very few  
traces of the magic would have remained. Now I see...now I see...."  
  
Neville stared at him for a moment, confused. Then, gradually, things   
began to fall into place, and stark comprehension dawned on his face.   
"They made me forget it," he said bleakly, not wanting to believe what  
he was saying. "Forget about Mum...and Dad...."  
  
"They tried to, Neville." The older man sat down on the bed again.   
"They cast the spell, and hoped that it would work. They must have  
thought so at the time...perhaps you stopped crying, or calmed down,   
or something that would have led them to believe that the spell had  
held. But it didn't...not entirely."  
  
"Why? People use Memory Charms all the time. Did they do something  
wrong?" Neville asked, scratching his head. He couldn't imagine  
anyone casting a spell to *make* him forget something. After all   
the times he'd been scolded by his grandmother and his teachers for  
not remembering things, it sounded absurd.  
  
"Both children and adults have a built-in coping mechanism that allows   
them to deal with traumatic events. The charm didn't touch your  
memories of the Death-Eaters and their acts, the painful, horrible  
memories deep inside. You had blocked the memories out yourself, you  
see. They're still there in your mind, not forgotten, but locked away  
and hidden to keep you safe. To keep you sane." Professor Stanton  
tapped his own forehead to emphasize his point before continuing.  
  
"But there's still the little matter of the Memory Charm, the one cast   
by the people who rescued you. I don't know who they were, but they   
certainly saved your life. Your grandmother might have been among   
them; I would be very surprised if she wasn't. Anyway, whoever they   
were, they cast the 'Obliviate' spell. It was a very powerful one,   
because they wanted to be absolutely sure that no trace of the terrible   
memory would be left to hurt you later on. But without a memory to   
remove, the spell stayed within you, searching for feelings of fear and   
helplessness as it tried to find what it was looking for.  
  
"And I think that's why you tend to be forgetful. The Memory Charm, or  
its remnants, doesn't seem to know what to remove from your mind. So   
when you feel nervous, or scared, or overwhelmed, it thinks it has   
found the memory it wants, and tries to remove it. But because it   
isn't the proper memory, it misfires, and you forget things.   
  
His piercing gaze studied Neville's troubled face. "Tell me, Neville,   
do you find yourself more forgetful than usual when you are in, say,   
Potions class?"  
  
Neville blanched, recalling all the cauldrons he'd melted, all the  
detentions he'd earned and all the points he'd lost for Gryffindor.   
From Day One, he hadn't done a thing right in that class. Worst of   
all, he could see Professor Snape's scowling face looming menacingly  
in the forefront of his mind.   
  
"That's where it's worst," he whispered.  
  
"You see what I mean," Professor Stanton said, nodding sagely.  
  
Neville's eyes filled with tears again, and his lower lip trembled.  
"So I suppose I'm always going to be like this," he mumbled. "Stupid.   
Forgetful."  
  
"Don't talk like that." Professor Stanton's voice was severe. "You  
are not stupid, Neville. And the fact that you have a difficult time  
remembering things is certainly not your fault. That is why I want you  
to keep this." He held out the folded newspaper clipping.   
  
Neville stared at it as if it would bite him.  
  
Professor Stanton placed it in Neville's hand, and curled his fingers   
around it. "I want you to have this, hold on to it. Keep it with you   
always. And the next time someone tells you that you're stupid--whether  
it is Professor Snape, or Draco Malfoy, or anyone else who thinks they  
can break you--I want you to remember that little piece of paper, and   
what I have told you tonight. You're far stronger than you know,   
Neville Longbottom...you just do a very good job of concealing it."   
His knowing eyes twinkled with the wry light of someone sharing a   
secret. "Keep it up. Don't let them catch on. You'll surprise us all  
in the end...I'm certain of it."  
  
Carefully, Neville lifted the piece of faded newspaper and set it   
aside. He didn't look at it. There would be time enough for that,   
later on. When he was alone.  
  
Professor Stanton stood, pulling his cloak around him. "I must go now.   
I have work to do, and so do you."  
  
"Me, sir?"  
  
"Oh, yes, Neville. You are going to go about your business as usual,   
and not mention this meeting to anyone else. Not to Mr. Potter or Mr.   
Weasley, or even to Miss Granger. They have their own tasks to   
perform. As far as they are concerned, you are the same Neville they   
have always known, a little timid and shy, easily overawed by others.   
But you aren't...not any longer."   
  
A pleasant shiver of pride raced up Neville's spine. "Yes, sir."  
  
The deep voice chuckled again. "Good man. I'll be seeing you soon.   
And Neville?"  
  
He looked up. "Yes, sir?"  
  
Professor Stanton was smiling, but his eyes were thoughtful and filled  
with quiet reverence. "Your grandmother is right. They can hear you.   
And they're very proud of you."  
  
With that, the air rippled around him, and he vanished.  
  
Neville strained his ears, trying to catch the faint sound of lovely,  
silvery bells as the music whistled away on the wind.  
  
As he sat very still in bed, his mind turning over the new knowledge,   
he heard a soft creak. The door to the dormitory slowly swung open.   
Quick as a flash, he hid the paper under his pillow and pulled the   
covers around him.   
  
Harry and Ron, fully dressed, crept into the room, fiercely shushing   
each other with every cautious step. The more they tried to be quiet,   
the louder their movements sounded. It was almost comical.   
  
They saw Neville sitting upright in bed, and stopped short. The guilty   
expressions on their faces were all too clear.  
  
"We...we were just getting a snack," Ron whispered hastily, tiptoeing  
over to his bed.  
  
"Yeah," Harry added, his hands twitching nervously. "Went to the  
kitchens. Just a little hungry, that's all."  
  
"Oh," Neville said calmly, and rolled over. "G'night, then."  
  
"'Night."  
  
"'Night."  
  
He heard the rustle of clothing being removed and put on, and the   
noise from their bedsprings as his two closest friends climbed into   
their respective beds to catch whatever sleep they could before it was  
time for class.   
  
Very slowly, Neville reached under the pillow. His fingers brushed the   
folded piece of paper hidden there. A small, secretive smile played   
across his lips as he drifted off to sleep.  
  
--------------------------------------------------------------------  
  
Gramarye  
gramarye@mailandnews.com  
http://gramarye.freehosting.net/  
January 4th, 2001 


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